In fall,the Big Leaf maples warm in color,and in time will let gotheir dying leaves.By December, the ungiving stalksof the American Sweetgum are bare and still, even in wind.

We walk beside the woodyardlate one afternoon,and my mother says, “The leaves are turning on the alders,” and nods.

Her skin, the best clock, a sundial in the angled light;I do not know her younger years,or the likeness of her gait at my age,but I can recognize crow’s feetat the edge of her eyes,the furrowed hands that have bathed me, cradled me.

I drop a glove in a puddle of rainwater, and bending to remove it,see the reflection of my mother’s figuresee the levy of years,the unexpected wither of skin, as if waking to see that it has snowed overnight.

Your poem has a real ease and beauty about it, a simplicity that makes it possible to be right there with you, looking at your mother, and walking in the woods. Lovely details. Your delicate photos are also very artistic.
Thanks for taking time to read my blog “Just East of Crazy Land: Adventures in Parenting.” I’m honoured! All the best for a happy 2014.